Speechless
by RainThestral93
Summary: A blunt head trauma is the least of John Watson's worries as his best friend and the world's only Consulting Detective returns from the dead. There are questions to be asked - and lots of them, but waking up in hospital there are far more important concerns. Will John Watson ever be able to talk again? Or has Sherlock Holmes rendered him well and truly speechless?
1. A Rush of Blood to the Head

_**Disclaimer:**__ I am by no means the genius behind the world of BBC Sherlock (kudos to you, Moffat) and I am not making any money from this venture. I am simply a frustrated writer waiting for the third series.  
__**  
Author's Note:**__ I've only ever written TVD or Harry Potter FanFiction, and the world of Sherlock FanFiction is startlingly new to me, so go easy on me whilst I get my bearings. That said, honest reviews are very much appreciated, I'd love to know what you think… many thanks… Beth :) If anyone's interesting in Beta-ing this work please send me a message, I'd really appreciate a second opinion._

* * *

**Chapter 1: Celebration Guns**_**  
"**__This morning's paper_  
_Ink stains my fingers"_

"Sherlock?" Mycroft's voice, if he didn't know better, was laced with what could only be described as concern. But that was ridiculous his older brother didn't have the capacity to _feel_, and besides, emotions were for the weak and foolish.

Sherlock's head was immediately filled with the choking voice of John, as he'd stood talking to a headstone – I mean, what kind of lunatic talks to a bit of marble, huh? – begging Sherlock to be alive. He sniffed, shoving the thought into the "analyse later" section of his mind. But it really was quite a bizarre experience to see his best friend stood talking to a grave. Eerie, even.

His brother's bland monotone continued. "It's easily done, you know. With some strategically placed agents we can take out Moran easily. I just need you to stay incognito until I can assemble a squad. It should be a few weeks until the hysteria surrounding your suicide dies down, and John's still grieving." Scorn clung to his words and Sherlock couldn't help but feel extremely irritated. He was flattered, and somewhat confused, due to how John had reacted to the news that Sherlock Holmes, certified genius and his narcissistic bastard of a best friend, was a fraud and killed himself.

"Don't let him know you're alive – his current state is the only reason he's alive right now, and you and I both know that. Moriarty's dead, once the three assassins are dead I'll set about clearing your name – make up some nonsense about you working on a top secret case for us, or something. What do you say?"

The world's only consulting detective pinched the bridge of his nose in an attempt to remain composed. It was Mycroft's fault he was in this stupid situation – apparently the security of the United Kingdom trumped family loyalty – and yet if there was one thing Sherlock detested more than his brother "worrying" about him, it was accepting help from his older brother.

Accepting help meant you were weak.

The gesture was minute and would have gone unnoticed by anyone less observant than Mycroft; a barely perceptible nod, that was all. Sherlock point blank refused to give him any more than that.

If Sherlock had lifted his head, from where he was currently trying to burn a hole in the overly polished floor boards of his brother's office he would have seen the tiny hint of a smile on the face of the man who hadn't so much as blinked when his beloved cat "Mr Snuggles" had passed away. Mycroft Holmes could only be described as elated – his brother had finally given in, and conceded that he needed help after all.

The whole world was being tipped on its axis. Not that Sherlock knew very much about that, though – he'd only recently learnt that the Earth orbits the sun, afterall.

* * *

Stepping outside into the cold autumn air, Sherlock pulled his coat around him and tugged the deerstalker he'd been given down over his ears in an attempt to go unrecognised. He needn't have bothered – the bustling London population had their heads down as they battled against the cold wind in their attempts to reach wherever it was they were going.

He was in a foul mood, and he needed a cigarette. The only problem was that every off-license within a 5 mile radius of 221B had been paid off not to sell him any. He contemplated asking a passer-by to buy him a pack, because this was an emergency. Sherlock Holmes shook his head, fighting his interior monologue. He'd accepted help from his brother and he wasn't about to resort to asking for a favour from the ordinary folk of London – not to mention the fact that getting someone else to buy you cigarettes was something a teenager would do, not a grown man of thirty-three.

So the foul mood persisted.

He had been cooped inside for days, and having scoured Mycroft's library from top to bottom, he had needled his brother to be allowed outside until he had given in – on the condition that he kept himself to himself. It was dangerous, knowing that the safety of three of the only people Sherlock Holmes remotely cared about would be compromised if he were found not to be six feet under like everyone assumed; but then what was life without a little excitement.

Two teenagers were sat on a bench, and he loitered by a bin until they moved. Sharing benches with strangers was one thing Sherlock Holmes did not like to do – other people interfered with his capacity to think; they messed with his brain waves or something to that effect. Sitting down and drawing his coat around him, as the wind nipped at his porcelain fingers Sherlock sighed. He felt like a sitting duck – waiting for this whole plan to go drastically wrong and collapse inwards. It wasn't as if he didn't deserve it – Sherlock had lied to his only friend, pretended to be dead. If one believed in karma, Sherlock Holmes was in for it. But he didn't hold stock in such nonsense so he figured he was safe – for now at least.

* * *

"They're dead." Mycroft's voice was devoid of emotion as always, and if one didn't know better, he could have passed for bored, disinterested.

"They, I assume, being the three assassins?" Sherlock's eyebrows knitted together. It seemed too simple – for a criminal mastermind like Moriarty there had to be more than three agents. The Irish maniac couldn't have been _that_ self-assured that Sherlock wouldn't figure out what the plan to "burn" him was, could he? Or was he really that egotistical? Sherlock shrugged, it wasn't as if he was going to find out; the man in question had blown his own head off, a somewhat stupid move, really.

"No Sherlock I mean the Royal family, who do you think." Sherlock detected an eye-roll through the Blackberry, and smirked.  
"Sarcasm's the lowest form of wit you know, according to word on the street, brother." Another eye roll, and Sherlock was now grinning for there was nothing he enjoyed more than riling his brother – between that and guessing what the issue was on the Jeremy Kyle show, even before the opening spiel, at least.

"You seem remotely unconcerned that your life has just been made undisputedly easier by my agents," Mycroft scorned. There was a pause on the line, as Sherlock juggled words he could utter next.

Barely audible, but definitely discernible, there was a quiet, "Thank you."

Further silence on Mycroft's end. Then laughter, an unfamiliar sound, "I'm sorry I didn't quite hear that, could you speak a little louder, Sherlock?" His brother was smug, infuriatingly so, and for the second time in a week, too. Sherlock was not happy about that, nor would he repeat himself.

He hung up.

_You are a bastard – SH_

_You're welcome, by the way. Press conference tomorrow at 9.00am, then you should be clear to resume your usual routine. – MH_

_Good. – SH_

I presume you'll find a way to deal with the flood of journalists that will likely come my way? – SH

_Already under control, not to worry – MH_

_When do I ever worry? – SH_

_I know you're worried about how John is going to react. – MH_

When Mycroft's inbox remained clear of any texts, he knew he had struck a chord with his brother. Poor John Watson – just another of his brother's experiments – was about to get a massive shock.

* * *

John Watson ate breakfast slowly, his forehead creased with lines which spoke of hardship and suffering. Stubble clung to his sallow cheeks. The steaming mug of coffee in front of him accompanied the bags under his eyes which detailed the lack of sleep he'd had of late.

He would wake up, sweating, breathing erratically, as his fists crumpled his sheets and he cried out. Blood spilling across paving slabs like lava. Not just any blood – the blood of Sherlock Holmes. Blood that was on _his _hands because he had failed to talk his best friend out of jumping. It was his fault that Sherlock Holmes was dead. By which his lack of desire to move, to go anywhere, to do anything, was explained.

He hadn't gone to work in three weeks, and he suspected that his position at the surgery had been filled already. There was close to 50 messages on the answering machine, and he hadn't listened to any of them. Jobless, and lifeless, John Watson fed cornflakes into his mouth without really tasting them. Chew. Swallow. Repeat. If he had been bothered, he would have reached for the television remote – next to Sherlock's dressing gown which lay as a sparse reminder of his friend's current lack of animation, and switched on the news, only to choke on his cereal as he discovered that Sherlock Holmes was in fact very much alive. But he didn't.

Although, he would be a dead man if John Watson ever got his hands on him.

* * *

"Come on John," Harry whined, down the phone, her voice still slightly slurred from one or two too many drinks the night before. "For me?"  
There was silence on the other end of the line.

"No. Harry I _can't _you don't understand."

"One little date to take your mind off things?"

John sighed. He hadn't left the house in a week – and Mrs Hudson's concern was practically oozing from the walls that separated them. If it would get his sister and his landlady off his back then he supposed it might do him could. But that would require showering, he mused, before sighing.

"Fine, I can't believe I'm agreeing to this. Set up on a blind date by my very own sister? Whatever is the world coming to!"

"Thank you John," Harry practically beamed at him from the receiver. "Angel In the Fields at 8 'o' clock, don't be late, okay?"

"Yes Harriet," John groaned, "Goodbye."

He stayed on the sofa for a further four hours before finally working up enough energy to drag himself to the bathroom, out of need to go more than a sudden compulsion to move. The hot cascading water from the shower stung but it was on the setting that Sherlock had always used and the searing of his flesh helped John to cling to the memory of his friend. He shaved, swilled mouthwash and brushed his teeth, arms propping him up over the basin as he looked into the mirror at the shadow of the man he had been when Sherlock was around.

He really couldn't believe that his sister had managed to convince him to go out for a drink at a pub with a "friend" of hers… he must be losing the plot; but then perhaps a bit of harmless flirtation and maybe even something a little more fun would help to break his cycle of self-pity and loathing.

* * *

"Sherlock Holmes, how long have you been an undercover agent for the British government?" Sherlock flicked his eyes over the reporter, who had a fleck of spinach on her right incisor which suggested she'd hurried her lunch and without checking her appearance, and rushed to get a couple of words from the revived consultant detective. Well he happily obliged, offering her two words and nothing more.

"No comment." He turned up the collar of his coat, and hailed a taxi, ignoring the flash of a camera as he climbed in. "Scotland Yard," he grinned, for it felt good to be able to say that again.

Lestrade had been rather enjoying his tea break, and the secret chocolate digestive which he looked forward to daily, that was until Sherlock Holmes sauntered into his office and caught him in the act.

"Thought you were meant to be watching your weight." Sherlock struggled to keep a straight face at the look of shock on his face, "Nonetheless, it's nice to see you again," he conceded. "It's been a while, but I need a favour…"

* * *

There was a crowd milling around outside the pub Harry had given him directions to, and he was surprised to find it quite as busy as it was. He swallowed nervously, for some reason, before shaking his head. He was John Watson, Captain Charm and devoted womaniser. It would take more than the suicide of his friend to ruin that reputation, he chuckled darkly to himself.

"Are you here for the speed dating, sir?" A young woman, of about twenty three smiled at him, clipboard in hand as she waited expectantly for an answer.

He shook his head distracted. "No I'm here to meet someone."

"It's speed dating night tonight sir, who knows you might meet someone here." She blinked, her eyes lingering a little longer on his lips than they perhaps should have. She was pretty, John noted, but not quite his type.

He groaned irritably. "Typical Harriet." He realised what his sister had set him up for – she knew he'd never agree to go speed dating but a blind date was just about alright. But what the hell; he'd gotten dressed he might as well give it a shot.

"Actually, I think I am on that list," he nodded to the clipboard, "John Watson."

"Excellent," the brunette with poorly dyed blonde hair with the pretty smile smiled after a quick perusal of names. "Step right inside, sir, and good luck. If you haven't found anyone that strikes your fancy by the end I get off at twelve," she winked, as he walked through the open door, slightly bemused at the effect he seemed to have on the opposite sex.

It seemed that John was early for once – whilst there was a mass of people surrounding the bar, and a couple of anxious people sat twiddling their thumbs at individual tables, nobody seemed to actually be "speed dating" yet; based on what little knowledge John had of the act. Walking up the bar, he ordered a beer out of a compulsion to appear manly. That, and he hadn't touched red wine since he had last shared a bottle with Sherlock prior to … well… he pushed the thought from his mind, determined to try and forget; for this evening at least.

Glancing around he spied one or two women he would consider attractive, although he noticed there seemed to be a disproportionate number of men to women. A man wearing a tight fitting Gucci suit and with more fake tan than the cast of TOWIE put together – definitely gay, he grinned, not even needing Sherlock to make that deduction for him – approached him, handed him a badge with the number 4 and some sheets with numbers on and a tick box. It was succinctly explained that he would have 5 minutes getting to know each woman, and then at the end of the night any that expressed an interest, he would have an opportunity to have a drink with and learn more about them. He shrugged – it seemed simple enough, and he wondered why he had never thought of this before. He would have to remember to get Harry a decent present if he got some action tonight, maybe she wasn't such a bad sister after all.

John sat down in a secluded booth in a corner, and resigned himself to observing the people around him as he sipped his pint. The woman from the door rang a bell, and all heads in the room turned to her as she assigned everyone their first "dates". John was faced with a woman with a sharp black bob that did nothing to highlight her angular cheekbones, and made her seem altogether rather severe. He tried to hide his grimace as his thoughts were drawn to another severe character – Irene Adler – but as soon as the though entered his brain, it was shoved out again, his desire to have fun and let go a little trumping the intense misery that clawed at his gut.

"Hi," he grinned, "I'm John. You are?"

He glanced down at the sheet, as she retorted, "Dawn." A smile, thin lipped. "What brings you here?"

John opened his mouth and closed it again. He suspected that replying, "well my best friend just killed himself and my sister decided I really ought to get out for the first time in three weeks" really wasn't a great way to strike up a conversation.

"I just got back from Afghanistan," he smiled, "The love life's been a little lacking, you could say."

"Ooh a soldier," Dawn seemed genuinely interested, leaning forward across the table as she asked him. "What's that like?"

* * *

Three women later, and John Watson had decided that he actually was having a rather good time. He couldn't decide whether Jess, primary school teacher with tight curls and wide eyes that were practically begging for it, or Nurse Alison, with her witty retorts and fascinating mouth was his favourite. Swallowing his last mouthful of beer, despite not really liking the drink, he approached the bar to get a refill. The bartender ignored him, so he coughed slightly, impatient to get back to his booth and talk to more women.

"He's deaf in that ear. I suggest you go round to the other side of the counter," a voice drawled from beside him. John's mouth dropped open; despite having been informed numerous times that it was highly unbecoming, and turned to face a trench-coat wearing sleuth that couldn't possibly be occupying that barstool right now.

It was impossible, Sherlock Holmes was dead.

"What – how – why- ah-" John stammered, a hand grasping the material of the man's coat in disbelief of its existence.

"Hello John. Can I buy you a drink?"

"You're _dead._" He shook his head, pressing his palms to his temple and screwing his eyes shut as if he was simply experiencing a strange dream. Any second now, and he would wake up. Surely his subconscious was simply taunting him.

Yet his eyes opened, and sure enough, Sherlock Holmes regarded him with familiar curiosity, a mildly amused smirk decorating his face that had last been seen decorating the pavement outside St Bart's hospital.

"I'm guessing from your reaction to my being here you haven't seen the papers today, have you John?" He presented John with the day's paper, but the words were a mash of ink and paper, making no sense no matter how hard John tried to read them. "I really had counted on your continued dedication to watch the headlines every morning, not to worry, though," the genius continued, failing to recognise the onset of symptoms of shock in his friend.

"I imagine this is a lot to take in, isn't it?" Sherlock tipped his head to the side as he tried to read his friend – so many emotions, all muddled, and hard to decipher.

John stared at the man in front of him, a range of unadulterated joy, followed by anger, hurt and confusion crossing his face, before his knees gave out.

John Watson promptly fainted, his head smacking a table as he went down.

* * *

**A/N: **First chapter done, so what do you think? Please take the time to review, it will be much appreciated I can assure you :) - Beth


	2. I Will Try to Fix You

**A/N**: I've really enjoyed immersing myself in the world of Sherlock FanFiction – even if it has meant extensive research on the medical technicalities of this chapter. If you find any mistakes, please don't hesitate to point them out to me, I'm no expert after all. Any thoughts on this chapter would be much appreciated – Beth

* * *

** Fix You**  
_"Tears stream down your face_  
_I promise you I will learn from my mistakes"_

Sherlock Holmes was extremely aggravated, and was craving a cigarette – a situation that would not do because one was not permitted to smoke inside hospitals, and there was no way that he was moving from where he sat diligently beside John's bedside.

The doctor – a blundering incompetent fool, Sherlock had thought, who was wearing far too much cologne and was also cheating on his wife – had said that John would wake up anywhere between now and in a couple of hours. For the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes could genuinely say that he was concerned for the welfare of another human being; not least because he was the one who had sparked John's accident, anyway.

He ignored the nurses who told him that visiting hours were long over, and sat stoically in his chair, waiting for his friend to wake up.

* * *

It was sometime after midnight that John finally woke, and was rushed away by doctors to have all manner of tests performed on him. Sherlock sat nervously wringing his hands, feeling an innate feeling of uselessness for the first time in his life.

Sherlock could tell immediately from the way the junior doctor's shoulders were hunched, and the way he kept clenching and unclenching his fist – releasing tension that he clearly felt – that the news was not going to be good. By the time the doctor came to a halt in front of him, Sherlock had already assessed the worst case scenario – in which John was acutely brain damaged and would require constant assistance to eat, walk and attend the facilities. Sherlock wasn't quite sure what he would say, or how he would react if that were said to him – to lose his friend and partner in crime-solving would be the blow Moriarty had been so intent on dealing him, and he wasn't sure he could handle that.

It was because of this, then, that his reaction to John's situation – acute aphasia; the disturbance in formulation and comprehension of language – was quite bizarre.

Sherlock Holmes laughed, and was met by a nervous stammer from the doctor.

"We're not quite sure how severe the injury is yet," Doctor Luhar garbled, "But you need to be prepared because it could mean he has anything from an inability to remember words to being completely unable to read, write or speak."

Sherlock's laughter stopped. "I know what aphasia is," he snapped, "What are his chances of recovering?"

A nurse came over to relieve Doctor Luhar, and Sherlock tensed, feeling the woman he was speaking to was of insufficient knowledge to assure him of the well-being, or not so well-being as the case may be, of his best friend.

"What are the chances that John Watson will be able to speak again?" Sherlock cut to the chase, his tone curt and laced with anger.

"We believe that the patient is suffering from global aphasia," the nurse cooed sympathetically – which Sherlock hardly thought appropriate given that he was a grown man and didn't need patronising, thank you very much. "The good news is that Global aphasia is the most common type in patients referred for speech rehabilitation therapy. All other cognitive areas remain fully functioning – your friend will simply be unable to understand all aspects of spoken and written language."

"Complete recovery is rare, however." Sherlock felt his heart stop momentarily, and his eyebrows knitted together in thought, an unfamiliar sensation flooding his brain. "Spontaneous improvement, if it happens, usually occurs within the first sixth months, but cases are very rare. It's important that you be made aware of that now."

"Yes, yes," Sherlock tutted impatiently, ignoring the woman's concern for his emotional well-being – which she need not have worried about; for he was completely and utterly fine. "You mentioned speech rehabilitation therapy. What exactly does that entail?"

"Well we have our own specialists here at St. Bart's," the dumpy nurse began to explain, not half as fast as Sherlock would have liked. "They assess the extent of damage before producing a rehabilitation plan for the individual which can include communication skills required for returning to work, living independently and so forth. The individual is taught to speak again in much the same way that a baby is, and following success in that area, the written word is combatted by a variety of lessons. We can enrol your friend as soon as he is dismissed," she smiled at Sherlock but he stared back at her, coldness in his eyes.

"I do believe that won't be necessary," Sherlock drawled, his eyes glazed over somewhat as his mind formulated a plan rapidly. "I'll teach him myself."

The nurse's forehead creased with anxiety, and she muttered something about fetching Dr Luhar and him being in a state of shock.

Sherlock Holmes rolled his eyes for the hundredth time that morning, and denied all accusations that he was simply talking nonsense because John's state of being shocked him. He let them hand him a cup of coffee, and didn't shrug off the fleece they put around his shoulders. Sometimes you were simply safer letting other people think they were helping rather than telling them otherwise. He allowed himself to be guided to one of the doctor's on call rooms, where he slept a fitful and troubled sleep.

* * *

"Doctor Luhar, I wish to see John," Sherlock demanded, his shirt crumpled and the suitcases under his eyes giving rise to the belief that he had not slept well at all. A sleepless Sherlock was a grouchy Sherlock, and the doctor would do well not to anger the over-bearing Consulting Detective.

"He can't speak," Doctor Luhar reminded him, "Seeing him in such a state is likely to be quite upsetting. Are you sure you want to?"

Sherlock supressed an eye roll. "Yes, I will be fine I can assure you. I just need to assess the extent of my project."

"Sorry?" Dr Luhar questioned, confused. "Your project?"

"You heard me correctly, Doctor," Sherlock's tone oozed intense dislike for the professional. "I will take on John's rehabilitation and ensure that he speaks again."

"But you're not qualified –" He was cut off by a steely glare, and backed off, as Sherlock entered the hospital room.

John was propped up on one of the hospital beds that Sherlock had found to be extremely uncomfortable in the few times he had visited the place. Horrid things – lumps in all the wrong places. At first glance there seemed very few differences, with exception to the nasty bruise on his forehead, result of impact with the pub floor. John's eyes were open, and they widened when they saw Sherlock. He recognised Sherlock, at least.

The irritatingly motherly nurse bustled into the room, and Sherlock tensed his fists.

"Don't mind me, dear," she sing-songed as she went about her duties.

Sherlock took the most sensible route he could see; ignoring her presence entirely. There was no point getting upset about things outside of his control. She did work here, after all.

"John," Sherlock's voice croaked, and he cleared it immediately, "John."

The patients eyes flitted across his features and his brow creased. Recognition, Sherlock thought with a wry smile.

"He knows his name, and he seemed to react quite startlingly when Dr Luhar mentioned yours," the meddling nurse interjected. Sherlock breathed in deeply to conceal his annoyance. Of course John would react strongly – he had bloody fainted at the sight of Sherlock, which was why he was here in the first place!

"Lovers spat?" She questioned, nosily. Sherlock glared her, no longer able to contain his disdain.

"I'm not trying to be rude," Sherlock spat, "But do you think you could leave?"

"Sorry, love," She smiled. "It's not really my business, I know. But you're prepared to teach him how to speak again, you must really love him."

"Get. Out." Sherlock all but snarled, and once the door was safely closed, he turned to regard his flatmate, who was throwing bombs of intense confusion, wonder, anger and a slight note of amusement – no doubt a reaction to the nurse assuming their relationship was a less than platonic one – towards him with his eyes.

"I'm going to teach you to speak again, John," Sherlock spoke deliberately, and John cocked his head. He opened his mouth and made to speak but his tongue flapped about uselessly. All that came out were gurgles not dissimilar to those one would expect to come from a pram containing a new-born child.

"Do you understand what I'm saying to you?" Sherlock spoke patiently, with a light hint of concern adorning his words.

John's brow creased and it was clear he struggled with what Sherlock said to him.

Sherlock felt a strange pang from between his ribcage, and he nursed it thoughtfully. "Can you hear what I'm saying to you, John?"

Then, John nodded. And Sherlock broke out into a broad grin.

Progress, he chuckled, always progress.

"I've missed you."

Another frog in his throat, Sherlock coughed, turning to look out of the blinds rather than look at his friend. Sentiment always made him uncomfortable – he avoided it at all costs. However there was something about being able to speak without being interrupted that gave Sherlock a certain confidence to say what he said next.

If he had looked at John he would have seen the intense pain that covered his friend's features. The emotional turmoil that he had experienced as a result of believing that his best friend – his _only_ friend, had committed suicide without so much as an explanation why – for he knew his friend was not a fraud.

"I'm sorry I lied to you, John. I know you have questions you want me to answer but until you're able to ask them me yourself, I'm afraid I'm going to refrain from answering. I need you to trust me, though." He turned to face John who followed his movements across the room as he paced back and forth.

"I need you to know that what I told you, what I did to you was for your own safety. I never dreamt of hurting you, John. Please believe that."

John made a gurgling noise that stabbed Sherlock with certain intensity, causing him to sink into a chair and hang his head in his hands. His body was overcome with emotion, and Sherlock Holmes was human for the first time in a very long time.

"I'm going to fix you, John." Sherlock's gaze pierced into John Watson's chocolate orbs.

Unable to speak, John held his companions gaze, and blinked, a single tear rolling down his cheeks.

Sherlock watched the salty droplet run its course over the tanned skin of his only friend, and he smiled sadly. It was his fault that John was broken. All his fault.

* * *

An hour later, after thoughtful meditation in the company of his mute flatmate, Sherlock decided that it was time to call in a few favours.

Mycroft I need you to acquire a degree in speech therapy for me. It's urgent, text back ASAP – SH

He got a reply almost instantaneously and he fumbled his Blackberry in his haste to reply.

Consider it done; Anthea has emailed it to you. May I ask why? – MH

No, you may not. – SH

And that was all that Mycroft would know, for now at least.

After a hasty perusal of the library's collection on speech therapy - if he was going to teach John how to speak and read again then he might as well start somewhere – Sherlock Holmes found Dr Luhar chatting to a secretary. He found the scene in front of him quite disgusting – such blatant contempt for the promises made in matrimony pissed him off to no end. However he maintained a steady temperament as he brandished his degree, and demanded that John Watson be released into his care immediately.

"Why on earth didn't you say something earlier?" Dr Luhar asked, bewildered. "I'll sign the release papers for tomorrow, we need to keep him in overnight for observance, to ensure there aren't any other malfunctions we haven't detected."

Placated, Sherlock agreed, and returned to 221B to explain both his existence and current predicament to Mrs Hudson, who would be both pleased as well as extremely distressed to see him home and well. He'd just have to try damned hardest to catch her, were she to faint, because one friend with brain damage was more than enough to be dealing with – even for Sherlock Holmes, he chuckled darkly to himself, as he tugged the lapels of his coat tighter, and hailed a taxi.

Sherlock Holmes was back in business – and with a little luck, and a lot of patience, he damn well hoped that John Watson would be too.

* * *

**A/N:** So whaddya think? Doctor Sherlock huh, taking care of John? How's it going to work out?


End file.
